


Insecurity

by InkEros (thacmis)



Series: Charlotte [1]
Category: X-Men (Alternate Timeline Movies)
Genre: Crossdressing, Established Relationship, Hurt/Comfort, Insecurity, M/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-06
Updated: 2016-08-06
Packaged: 2018-07-29 16:02:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,332
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7690822
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thacmis/pseuds/InkEros
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <em>What if Erik loves Charlotte... more?</em>
</p><p>Once the idea takes hold in Charles' mind, he can't shake it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Insecurity

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Geertrui](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Geertrui/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Lashes](https://archiveofourown.org/works/6186865) by [Geertrui](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Geertrui/pseuds/Geertrui). 



> as usual, don't expect too much... :F

He knows it's ridiculous.

The moment the thought filters into his head, between Erik kissing his painted lips and flopping onto the pillow next to him, he instantly denies it. Erik loves _him_ , not her. This is just for fun.

But the moment he notices it, it’s like he's noticing a fickle mark on the wall or a freckle in a strange place; no matter how much he ignores it, it never goes away.

***

Sunlight streams through the curtains. It’s a quiet Saturday morning. His husband sleeps curled into his side, face buried into his shoulder, breaths deep and calm and warming a patch on his t-shirt. There’s still a smudge of lipstick at the corner of his mouth that Charles missed in his shower last night. Erik can’t help but smile fondly at the brown, fluffy locks, and he leans down to press a kiss on one stubbly cheek before untangling himself for his morning run. Charles protests sleepily and whines a little at the space that Erik leaves, but when Erik gently strokes Charles’ hair and places another kiss on his head, Charles sighs, and quiets.

He runs three laps around the mansion and the fields, and returns to the bedroom, sweaty and aching but refreshed and dispelled of the last dregs of sleep. Charles is still sprawled across the sheets, blankets a mess, but the brightness hovering at the edge of Erik’s mind tells him that he’s wide awake now.

 _Come here, darling_.

“I’m sweaty,” Erik replies, winding up his earbuds and sliding his damp t-shirt over his head. He knows Charles is watching, and so he does it slowly, flexing his muscles. Charles hums his approval.

 _Darling_.

Erik relents and walks over, leaning down to kiss Charles’ nose, while Charles reaches up and wounds both arms around his neck. Wary of their morning breath, Charles simply nuzzles into Erik’s neck, sniffing and placing soft kisses as Erik scoops him up into the bathroom. Charles lets Erik strip him, and they both step into the shower.

The water runs down their bodies just as Erik runs his hands up the sides of his sleepy husband’s body. It’s built, and muscular, but compact and adorable and sexy and Erik can’t get enough of it. It’ll be wrapped in a skintight purple dress this evening – it’s _been_ wrapped in several different dresses and shown off to the world, and Erik feels hot knowing he’s the only one to _know_ the body behind them.

“Mmmm,” Charles hums into Erik’s neck, as Erik lathers his husband’s body with the soft, lavender soap that Charles always uses before a formal event. His legs are smooth, his crotch is smooth, with only the tiniest, infant, day’s worth of stubbly growth dotting across them – he’d only just shaved for another event yesterday, after all – and Erik relishes every square inch of skin he gets to caress with his fingers. Charles moans with pleasure. “Thank you,” he says. “I just can’t be bothered in the mornings.”

 _I know, schatz_.

As they step out of the shower and dry themselves off with a single large towel, Erik notices the slight swelling of Charles’ cock. Erik grins and nudges it with the towel, and the cock twitches. Charles huffs and pushes Erik’s hands away.

 _Not now. We’ve just showered. We’ve a day function to prepare for_.

 _We can skip the day gala. Stark said it isn’t mandatory. We can just show up for the dinner._ Erik stares at the fattening cock without hiding his lust, and thinks about all the things he’d like to do to it, and smirks at the way it gets thicker with his increasingly filthier thoughts.

Charles lets out a strangled groan, but he turns away. Erik bites his lip in disappointment.

 _I promised Tony, and so did you,_ Charles thinks, though a tinge of disappointment colours his tone as well. _But, a whole day of me, dressed up for you. That’s not so bad either, is it?_

 _All right, all right_. Erik backs up and hangs the towel to dry. They’re quiet for a few minutes as Erik shuffles on clean briefs, dress pants, and a white shirt while Charles slips on white, lacy underwear, which stretches taut over Charles’ cock. Erik stares, and swallows.

“Yes?” Charles asks, a knowing smile curling one corner of his bright red lips.

Erik clears his throat, and tears his eyes away. “Charlotte,” Erik murmurs. “Can I see you become Charlotte?”

Charles smiles. “Of course.”

Erik should have seen it. In retrospect, he should have caught it right there. Charles’ smile came a fraction of a second too slow just then, but the delay was quick enough to attribute to imagination, so Erik shrugged it from his mind.

In just his underwear, white lace wrapped over perfect buttocks, Charles stands before the bathroom mirror, and Erik settles on a stool behind him.

Charles fishes a bag of cylindrical plastic objects out from the bathroom cabinet, and he takes several out to place in a row on the counter. With a handful of wet, dark hair, Charles rolls his locks over one cylinder, which he clips into place. He does this several times over his entire head, in a pattern that Erik knows is there but can’t see. When he finishes, Charles with his hair in rollers reminds Erik of his mother, Edie, and it looks silly and adorable enough that Erik can’t help letting a trickle of mirth escape into their shared mental space.

Charles blushes a little bit out of embarrassment. “Just wait until I’m done,” he says.

"We could always get wigs," Erik murmurs.

Charles' eyes light up at the suggestion, and he hums thoughtfully. "Now those would save quite a bit of time. Maybe for the next gala…"

Once all the rollers are in place, Charles reaches down to grab something, but stops half way. “Ah, I haven’t shaved,” Charles mutters, feeling his jaw, and reaches for the can of shaving cream. Something uncertain flickers through their mental link, but it disappears as soon as Erik notices it, and Erik can’t be sure it was really there.

Charles lathers white cream all over his jaw and neck, and when satisfied with his beard of white cream, Charles runs a blade gently over his skin, starting from his left cheek. Neither of them talk, simply enjoying the pleasant hum of being in each other’s mind, in each other’s company. Erik tunes his senses into the metal to feel how it caresses the skin and runs over each hair follicle, and warms the cold blade a little bit for Charles’ comfort. A pleasant sandy sound accompanies each swipe, and little by little the white beard of foam is replaced by smooth, clean skin. But his jaw is still faintly stippled over with grey; shaving off a beard, however closely, never removes its presence entirely from a man’s face.

Charles washes off excess cream and cleans the razor before placing it inside the cabinet. Now, he reaches down and pulls out a large bag containing a large number of brushes and jars and bottles.

Between their first formal event and now, Charles has amassed quite a collection of cosmetics. And they’re no longer only used for the social events that Stark forces them to attend.

It’s their little secret at home, as well.

Charles pulls out a beige-coloured tube and squeezes some opaque skin-coloured cream into the middle of his palm, which he then lathers over the lower half of his face where his beard grows. He runs a finger along his upper lip to smooth out the cream there, and when he finishes, there’s no trace of a beard at all. His face is a bit more feminine, a bit more _Charlotte_ than before.

A quick train of different browns and beiges and cream-coloured pens and powder follow, decorating the landscape of his face and shaping it to the map of _Charlotte_. As Erik watches, as Charles blends the pigments, Charlotte appears bit by bit. He arches his back and pushes out his lace-covered buttocks out towards Erik as Charles puts on a show, and that delicious contrast of such femininity in such a masculine body has Erik’s pants beginning to fill out at the front.

Charles… is so _beautiful_. Soft brushes dance across his cheeks to leave him rosy and blushing just so. Charles leans towards the mirror, arching his back even further, to line his eyelids with black that curl up into two symmetrical points that brighten his large, blue eyes. The false lashes are next – Erik breathes deeply as he remembers all that they’ve done with those on, and Charles smiles. Carefully, carefully, Charles applies the glue and pushes the lashes onto the edges of his lined eyelids, wrists and fingers holding them delicately in place for a few seconds.  When he finishes both, patting the lashes lightly upwards with his index fingers to give them volume, Charles steps back and blinks a few times at himself. The lashes flutter a little, and so does Erik’s heart.

It’s such a _show_ , and it’s for Erik, and Erik alone. Peach and flowers mist around the bathroom as he dabs perfume onto his pulse points, and Erik wants to bite that smooth, milky expanse of skin. Charles bats his lashes at him with a demure smile in the mirror as he catches Erik’s thought, and Erik grips his thighs as his crotch hardens further.

Charles pulls out a copper tube, which he twists open to reveal a bright, cherry-red nub. He leans close to the mirror again and opens his mouth slightly, and oh, Erik wants to kiss him. He wonders if he’s normal, if he’s perverted, for loving this, for becoming _this hard_ simply by watching his husband dress up.

 _I’m enjoying this as much as you are,_ Charles whispers in his head. _Maybe even more_.

Once his lips are emphasized to the fullest they can be – deep, red, plush, and so, so kissable – Charles runs something wet and glittery over them – _gloss_ , Charles supplies – and he pouts his lips out at the mirror to inspect his job. Erik bites down a groan. Charles smiles, and begins putting away all the opened jars and tubes.

Charles picks up a hair brush and a dryer on the counter beside his, and runs hot air over his hair for a few minutes. Once completely dry, he slides each cylinder out with a clean snap, and perfectly curled brown coifs fall out, which he pats and brushes and fluffs into place. His hair is long enough now to be styled into something more womanly, just brushing across his shoulders, but still within the boundaries of professionalism for a university professor.

When Charles is finally satisfied with his work, he turns around, hair bobbing and brushing gently against his skin, and stands in front of Erik, hip cocked.

“Well?” he says, voice low and sultry, and Erik shivers. His perfect eyes glance down, and his red, red lips quirk into a small smile. “Oh, _my_.”

Erik reaches out and pulls his husband into his lap. He pushes his face into Charles’ hair, into his neck, mindful of not disturbing the meticulously-applied makeup and hairstyle that turn his husband into _Charlotte_.

“Charlotte,” Erik says, breathing deeply the sweet scent of hair gel. “You’re so beautiful.”

***

Charles… stiffens.

 _There it is again_ , Charles thinks.

Erik looks up in confusion, but Charles smiles widely to dismiss the moment.

It’s _silly_ , it’s such a silly feeling. This is just _for fun_. Charles knows this, and so does Erik.

He tries to quash the sludge of unease that is beginning to form in his mind.

“As I should be,” he says in Charlotte’s high, airy voice. “For such a perfect husband like you.”

The movement of his lips seems to mesmerize his husband, and Erik moves up to kiss him, but Charles presses a finger against his mouth.

“Not now, darling. You’ll have me all night tonight. Help me into my dress.”

Charles intertwines their fingers together and pulls Erik out of the bathroom, walking with a purposeful sway in his hips towards the dresser, where his purple outfit and corset lies, and he can feel the excitement stirring in Erik’s mind at seeing Charles in yet another new dress.

It’s stretchy but tight, hugging so closely to every part of his body that it’s like a second skin, and he’d almost be embarrassed by the way his crotch bulges so obviously were it not for the way his husband is eyeing him. The dress wraps his thighs tight together, amplifying every movement and sway of his hips and buttocks. The thickness of his thighs contrasts with the small waist and padded breasts that the corset gives him in such a way that his body almost doesn’t need telepathic charms to look deliciously feminine. The fluttery peplum frills around his hips only furthers the illusion, and he fluffs them to give them more volume.

“Fuck,” Erik mutters, running his hand up and down Charles’ sides as he stands behind him. “You look so _good_.”

The sensation is enough to make his cock harden a little, but in a dress _this_ tight _–_ “Stop,” Charles hisses, blushing. “You’ll stretch my dress.”

 _As I said, we don’t have to go to this gala_.

_This dress cost nearly two grand. And I look good in it. I won’t let you ruin it._

Erik huffs, but relents.

Charles reaches up to pull Erik's face towards his own, and gently flutters his long, long lashes on Erik’s cheek. Erik shivers.

*

Charles does his duties as the _perfect_ trophy wife, as usual, holding onto Erik’s arm as they walk around the enormous, gilded halls, showing off his _handsome, wonderful, amazing husband_ in sugar-coated words and glances, just as Erik shows _him_ off with a possessive hand on his lower back, and green, fiery eyes that never stray far from Charles’ own.

Erik doesn’t speak much, much more content to let Charles win over the other guests while he stands looking stoic and a little bored to the side. During the few times he does speak, it’s only to ask what Charlotte needs, if Charlotte is all right, we can leave now if you’re getting tired, schatz? All the women and men in the room envy either Charlotte or Erik the perfect spouse, and Charles plays that up like a fan with fire, and soon enough, Mr. and Mrs. Lehnsherr are _the_ couple of the event. In the meantime, inside Erik’s mind are only thoughts about _how good_ Charlotte looks and _how beautiful_ her eyes are and _how much_ he’d like to go home, right now, and…

…Erik’s never shown _this_ level of intensity at _him_ before.

Again, Charles feels that sludge of unease creeping back into his mind, and again, he tries to push it away. He _is_ here as Charlotte. He’s irritated at himself at how silly he’s being.

Still… he can’t quite ignore the thought maybe Erik might be more in love with _Charlotte_ instead.

But he doesn’t have that much time to mull over this as another, more immediate worry chafes his mind.

He’s wearing 3-inch deep purple Louboutins, and though they make his smooth legs look bloody _amazing_ , with calf definition that would enchant sculptors and painters alike, his feet protest otherwise. After four hours walking around in the gala, followed only by a short break during which they’re ushered off to the dinner, Charles’ feet are screaming bloody murder.

Charles is resilient, but he’s never worn heels until recently, while the other women in these functions have grown up in them. For Erik’s sake and his own pride, he tries to bear it, but as the dinner ends, and all the couples are to congregate in the middle of the hall to dance, Charles stumbles. It’s only Erik’s arm that saves him from becoming a mess on the floor.

“Charle- Charlotte?” Erik asks. Deep concern etches lines across his brow.

“Yes, darling,” Charles grits out, and gestures towards his heels. He notices a few of the other guests looking towards them, and he scatters their attention elsewhere with his telepathy. “These aren’t exactly kind to the feet.”

Erik helps him up, and all but carries him back to their seat at the tables, which is mostly empty now that most of the guests were in the middle of the dance floor. “Then we’re not dancing tonight. We’ll be free to leave after Tony’s speech in half an hour. Let's just stay here," Erik says as they sit down. Charles nods gratefully.

"I’ll go get us another drink.”

“All right.”

Erik runs his hand gently up his side in a comforting manner, before standing up to leave for the bar. A moment before he does, however, Erik’s face is so close to his own and he’s looking at him with such a soft expression that Charles is gripped by a sudden urge to kiss him, and so he leans forward.

But Erik turns away before he can make contact, and walks away without a backward glance.

An icy shower pours down his back just then, and for a few seconds, Charles simply sits there, shocked. What was that? Charles nibbles at his bottom lip and wills himself to calm down; maybe it was just an accident, maybe Erik didn’t notice; he’ll try kissing Erik again when he comes back.

Before he can think himself into panic, a familiar mind approaches, and a low, sultry female voice calls his name.

“Charles?”

He looks up, and grins when he registers the perfectly coifed blonde curls, the diamond jewels, and the blinding white dress. “Emma? It’s been such a long time! What are you doing here?” He tries to stand up to greet her, but his feet absolutely refuse any more pressure than they’ve already survived today. Charles smiles apologetically at her, and her presence in his mind tells him she understands. A polite wave of sympathy washes over him.

“Well, don’t you look amazing,” she says, dragging her eyes appreciatively over his body. “I heard Erik had brought his _wife_ to Tony’s parties.” _I thought you two ended without telling me._

“Oh, Emma,” he laughs as she takes a seat across from him. “But you should know Erik well enough that that couldn’t be true.”

She snorts, and Charles grins. Emma and Erik had grown up together, and while Erik’s made a name for himself in engineering, Emma has gone on to become an international fashion designer. Before they broke through in their careers, however, Emma and Erik lived together. They had some… interesting childhood memories, which Emma had shared with him, to Erik’s dismay and Charles’ utter delight.

“So how did all of this-” she gestures towards all of him with an elegant flick of her wrist- “come to be?”

“People were becoming a little too interested in Stark’s new head engineering, and one of the questions were about his spouse. As I’ve finally gotten out of the public’s eye, and have no interest in getting back in it, Tony suggested that I be… _Charlotte_ Lehnsherr instead.”

“Clever,” Emma says, looking over him again with smoky eyes. He bats his lashes, making her laugh.

Then, her smile turns more serious as she scrutinizes his face.

“Emma?” he asks.

“You’re here as Charlotte to get the paps to lose interest, is that right?”

“Yes?”

“Hmm…” she looks thoughtful, and a small frown starts to form on her face as she continues to stare at his face. “You’re using glamour to disguise the more masculine aspects of your appearance, but… Charles, cameras don’t have minds.”

It takes a second for Charles to register what she is implying, and when he does, the smile drops from his face, he swallows hard, and a second cold shower douses his senses. His hand flies immediately up to his Adam’s apple, and thinks furiously back to any of the times he recalls a camera flashing in his face.

He’s a professor, a _Xavier_. He couldn’t – Erik’s position and standing and – his beloved job – dear god, why did they not think this _through_ -

“Here…” Emma takes out her slick, white-gold iPhone, and takes a picture of him. She turns her phone around to show him the photo.

Sure enough, the bob of his Adam’s apple is extremely obvious – a small, white, shiny lump sitting in the middle of his pale throat. The photo shows that his neck is thick, his shoulders are broad and muscled, and his jaw has a masculine angle that no amount of makeup can hide.

But even worse…

His eyes may be lovely enough, and his features may be more effeminate than most of his gender, but they don’t arrest enough attention away from the shadow that grows on the lower half of his face. Horrified, he zooms closer, and sees the faint but unmistakable grey of a five o’clock shadow dotting across his cheeks, upper lip, and chin. He touches his face gingerly, and as expected, a soft, sandy texture meets his fingertips.

At the moment, however, it feels coarse and abrasive and like the world’s end.

He thinks back, and realizes that the last time he looked at his face properly was… this morning, while he was doing his makeup, seven hours ago. Of course his stubble would grow to a noticeable amount in that time; how could he not have thought of this? They had never before attended two long events in a row that would last an entire day, and Charles never really thinks about reinforcing his makeup because of his ability to glamour – but even so, _how_ could he not have _thought of this_? Just how many people had phones today, tonight? How many photos has he been in, even inadvertently in the background? Charles can’t even pull up _any_ relevant memory in his current state of distress-

Out of everything he could have remembered in that moment, out of _everything_ in the last seven _hours_ , the only memory that does flash in his mind is…

Of Erik, pulling away from his kiss.

“Charles?” Emma asks softly, leaning forward and looking a little worried.

“Oh, I…” Charles clears his throat and blinks a few times. The heavy, false lashes make the movement sluggish and he wants to rip them off. “I’m all right. I just need…” He needs to go home, right now.

“Charles,” Emma says, placing a warm, gloved hand on his bare shoulder. “Charles, Tony doesn’t allow paparazzi into these private parties. I haven’t heard anything that has given you away so far, so it’ll be fine for now. I can look around for you to see if I can –”

“Ms. Frost!”

A red-skinned man with a scar on his face approaches them. “I apologize for interrupting, Ms. Frost, Mrs. Lehnsherr. Ms. Frost, you have a call.”

“Oh.” Emma looks torn, but indecision is not in her nature, and she grimaces. “I have to take this call. Don’t worry too much, sugar. I’ll see what I can take care of, and I’ll let Tony know. Say hi to Erik for me.” She presses a light kiss to his cheek before hurrying away with the red-skinned man.

Alone now, Charles can’t help but examine the memory of the missed kiss, and he wonders if… if his stubble, growing through his thick layer of foundation, something that _isn’t Charlotte_ , might have been a factor. Running his fingers along the rough texture, he turns to see his reflection in the glass jar placed on the table next to him.

In his upset state of mind, the dark uneven stubble on Charlotte’s fair, prettily painted face looks far from flattering.

Charles hasn’t placed a telepathic glamour over Erik, who, besides Emma, is the only person who can see Charles for who he really is. He thinks about how he had walked around on Eriks’ arm, under Erik’s eyes, oblivious to the growth on his face, and feels his stomach invert in embarrassment. Charles presses both hands to the lower half of his face and wishes he could go back in time. He had so many opportunities to at least _glance_ at the mirror with even a bit of attention whenever he’d gone to the washroom. How could he not notice?

Erik finds him a minute later sitting in the chair looking forlornly at the ground.

“…Charles?”

Charles jumps. “Oh! Yes,” Charles replies, startled out of his musings. Erik glances down at Charles’ hands, which are still covering his face, and Charles quickly pulls them away. Erik looks questioningly at the lower half of his face, and Charles suddenly feels too exposed, too self-conscious about his stubble – he feels that he’s sporting an _entire beard_ , and _Charlotte_ shouldn’t, doesn’t, have that – and ducks his head while feeling blood rush up to his ears and high on his cheeks in an embarrassed flush.

Where was Charlotte, that confident, flirtatious, beautiful woman that moves Erik so much? Charles can’t summon her right now and he feels strangely as though he’s let his husband down. He suddenly feels so inadequate, in her absence. And with the existence of photos of his unglamoured appearance uncertain, it was nearly impossible for Charles to even start looking for Charlotte again.

“Here,” Erik says, sitting down next to him and offering a glass of gold liquid, and Charles tries to mute as much of his inner turmoil as much as he can from his face. Erik still senses something, and frowns in concern. “…Charles?” Erik says quietly. “You don’t look well.”

“I…” Charles curses himself. He takes a sip of the wine and tries to breathe. “I think I’d like to go home now,” Charles says quietly.

There is a short pause. “Anything you want, schatz,” Erik replies after a moment, equally softly. “Did something happen?”

Charles shakes his head, and Erik doesn’t press further. He helps Charles up onto his feet and keeps one strong arm around Charles’ waist while the other holds his hand as they walk towards the exit.

He wonders if he should ask for that kiss, but… that memory is still too fresh for Charles not to doubt it might not happen again, and he decides he doesn’t want to know how it would feel if Erik really refused.

***

That night, Erik still doesn’t press Charles, and does everything for him short of reading his mind.

When they arrive home, Erik senses that Charles needs space and, trusting that Charles will talk about whatever is on his mind one day, but not now. So he simply presses a soft kiss on his husband’s blush-dusted cheeks, his hand gentle yet firm on the silky waist.

Charles ducks his head instinctively, still very much aware of the stubbly growth on his face, and instantly regrets the action when he feels a spike of doubt in Erik’s mind. Charles immediately burrows his face into the hollow of his husband’s neck in apology. Though questions still hover at the edges of his mind, Erik says nothing and wraps his arms around Charles, and holds him there for a long time.

He could bring up the subject of his telepathy’s limits and the possibility of the incriminating photos existing… but that would lead eventually to the talk of his beard, and he doesn’t want to know what Erik thinks about all of that, right now.

In bed, after Charles has put away the dress, washed away the makeup, shed Charlotte from his body – he shaves again, and if Erik notices, he doesn’t comment – Charles crawls tentatively into Erik’s side, and Erik receives him by immediately encircling his shoulders and waist with his arms. They curl towards each other and simply breathe in the other’s warm, grounding presence, and Charles feels a little better.

***

“Charles?” Erik calls as he hangs up his coat, looking around for his missing husband.

Charles usually sits in the loveseat in the west living room, buried under papers and textbooks and unlidded pens, but Erik can’t see the fluffy brown head there today. The living room is clean.

He’s about to get worried and yell Charles’ name a few more times before a warm nudge on his mind calms him down.

_I’m right here, darling. No need to panic._

The warmth tugs at him gently to follow its trail up the stairs and into their private gym room. He steps in, confused and wondering what on earth Charles could be here for, because as far as he’s concerned Erik’s the only one who ever actually goes near this room to exercise, when the weather outside is bad for his daily morning runs.

He enters the room… then his jaw drops, and his cock almost hardens instantaneously.

“W-what are you doing?” Erik croaks.

A few metres away, Charles is… slowly jogging on the treadmill, calf and thigh muscles full and defined, but that isn’t half of why Erik is currently struggling to use what little blood is left in his brain. Charles is wearing a _sports bra_ , tight across his chest and _stuffed_ , some plump rounded things that fill out the stretchy material fully and nicely and squeeze what little pectoral muscles Charles has, producing a pair of perfect breasts and the slightest shadow of a cleavage. His abdomen and navel, pale and fleshy and smooth – just _calling_ to Erik to be bitten – are on full display. A matching pair of powder blue shorts – no, Erik notes with a throbbing cock, it’s a _skirt_ – hugs his bottom, so tightly that Charles’ bulge is straining almost painfully against it, and Erik wants to lick it, and the skirt is _so short_ on Charles’ bum that with every step Charles takes, a little bit of a frilly white underwear peaks out at Erik, and, and _fuck_ , it’s all so _fucking delicious_ that Erik is aware he is short-circuiting and he needs Charles under him _right now_ -

Charles gasps suddenly and stumbles a bit at the intensity of Erik’s desire, and Erik can see Charles’ neck flushing.

Erik’s mouth is completely dry. He walks closer to the treadmill for a better view of his husband. He’s even hotter up close, if that were possible, and Erik notices with a pang that Charles is wearing a full face of make up as well. His large blue eyes are brought out with thick lines of black and a thick set of curled false lashes, which flutter every time he blinks. His cheeks and chin are smooth and pale with a thick layer of foundation, shadowed with blush and contour, and his lips are glossy and cherry pink and it is all Erik can do not to pull Charles off and throw himself at him like an animal.

 _What’s this for?_ Erik asks, swallowing.

Charles looks down at him under his lashes and smiles lazily.

 _I want to fit into more dresses. I want to look good for you, Erik_.

Erik just… tries to breathe, standing there, memorizing all the lines and features of his husband’s body _like this_. A show, _just for Erik_. Charles’ ass looks so smoothly rounded in that skirt. His pectorals almost look like a woman’s breasts; they’re pressed so tightly together by the tiny sports bra, by the paddings. The middle of his chest seems to have a light dusting of brown powder, as though to emphasize the cleavage, and Erik wonders how it would feel to lick a strip down…and… Erik must really unzip his pants. Charles’ own cock, in turn, has filled out the tight skirt so that it looks dangerously close to ripping.

 _I like you looking at me,_ Charles supplies in answer.

Erik licks his lips. _I love looking at you. Always._

_I’m surprised you haven’t taken me off this machine yet._

Without a second’s hesitation, Erik whisks Charles off the treadmill – one arm around the shoulders, one arm under the knees. Charles gasps at the sudden movement and clutches Erik’s shoulders, before Erik sets him down.

“I was trying to be civilized,” Erik growls into Charles’ ear. Charles shivers.

Erik closes the distance between his lips and the shell of Charles’ ear, and Charles gasps at the soft, wet warmth and the puffs of hot air that brush across his skin. Erik can feel the bulge in Charles’ tight skirt, lined against his own, strain harder, and Erik moans. Charles grabs Erik's hands and presses the palms against his plumped breasts, and Erik squeezes them, eliciting a truly sensual gasp from Charles' open, cherry red lips. The flutter of Charles’ lashes dance across Erik’s cheek. Erik nips his ear, eliciting another, deeper gasp, and a whimper.

“God, _look at you_ ,” Erik breathes, grinding a little.

An explosion of heat and colours flood his mind in answer.

Mouthing around the ear a little bit more, Erik starts to move towards Charles’ cheek, his lips never leaving the skin. He reaches the tender spot right before Charles’ ear, where the hairline ends and the beard starts, nuzzling at the slight texture of shaved stubble in that area that Charles hadn’t quite managed to cover with foundation and powder.

Erik murmurs contentedly. He adds just enough pressure with his lips to feel the faint texture of the closely-shaven stubble underneath the concealer, and he inhales the lavender that is mixed with Charles’ natural, musky scent. “Why did you decide to be Charlotte today?” Erik mumbles, nuzzling farther down the cheek, probably upsetting the foundation, but Erik doesn’t care—

Suddenly, Charles pulls back with a hand over the cheek Erik was just working on, face a little bit pale. His lined and lashed eyes are wide, with… fear.

Fear?

Erik is puzzled and a little bit worried. The mood has been completely replaced by something odd and cold. “Charles? What’s wrong?”

Charles looks down jerkily and then up again. “Um.” His cheeks flush a deep red, hand still on his cheek, and he continues looking at Erik with darting glances, as though unable to meet Erik’s eyes. Charles releases an obviously forced chuckle, and Erik’s concern deepens.

“Charles?”

“N-nothing, nothing,” Charles says, darting a glance at him and then looking down again. “Ah, I…don’t think I’m up for this, after all. Not today. I'm… sorry.”

“Is it something I did?” Erik pushes. It had been going so wel. Does Charles not like his ears being touched, being mouthed? Why didn’t Charles say something about that – he seemed like he enjoyed it –

“Please, let’s drop it,” Charles says, quieter this time but with a tone that desperately asked for Erik’s support.

Erik doesn’t answer for a moment, frowning deeply and wanting to push but knowing it might push Charles farther from where they want to be, and decides to let it go, just this once. Charles _has_ been acting slightly strangely lately, now that Erik thinks about it, but not enough that Erik can really put a finger to it…. However, he will trust Charles to tell him when he’s ready; Charles always tells him sooner or later.

“Ok,” Erik says. He drops his arms from where they were touching Charles, and turns around. “I’ll go make dinner ready.”

Charles nods, his hand still on his cheek, face red, eyes down.

“Will you be ok?” Erik asks one last time.

At that, Charles looks up, and forces another too-bright grin. “Yes, I’ll be fine, Erik.”

Erik hesitates, and then leaves.

***

Just the thought of Erik feeling stubble on _Charlotte’s_ skin gives Charles an icy shower. That's _Charles',_ not _Charlotte's. Charlotte_ isn’t supposed to have _stubble_.

And the fact that such a passionate moment of love and lust stemmed from Erik seeing _Charlotte_ , not _Charles…_

It hurts him.

But even so, he wants Erik to be happy. Even when he can’t see where he ends and where Charlotte begins while it’s clear Erik does, Charles doesn’t want to ruin this.

***

Charles has run out of concealer.

He stares, dumbstruck, at the empty pot of beige cream, the residual bits on the sides far from enough to cover the rest of his jaw for the evening dinner at Stark Tower tonight.

He’d forgotten to buy more yesterday.

Charles looks up at the mirror, and notes with horror that only half of his left cheek has been properly erased of stubble, but the rest of his face looks as masculine as ever. His upper lip and chin have it worst, where hair follicles are more concentrated per area than anywhere else, and in his state of panic he sees that he might as well be wearing a faint goatee. He had shaved as closely as possible, but he can still see the beard, and it’s driving him crazy.

“Fuck,” Charles whispers, rubbing at the faint sandiness. “Fuck fuck _fuck_.” He should have started concealing those areas first.

“Charles, are you done?” Erik calls from somewhere in the bedroom.

“U-uh,” Charles calls back, his voice breaking. “No! I’m quite far from done.”

“Okay, well, we’ve only got half an hour left, and you still have to put on your outfit.”

A quiet whine escapes Charles’ throat as he contemplates what to do. Biting his lip and knowing there’s nothing he can really do, except to buy a new tub of concealer, which they simply do not have time for, Charles starts on the rest of his makeup, carefully lining his eyes and applying his mascara, putting on powder and foundation and shadows and highlights to try to detract attention from his slightly darker jaw. He scavenges what he can from the empty concealer tub to cover what stubble he can on the rest of his face, and sacrifices a few more minutes running his razor blade across his face in vain.

Charles steps back to survey his job. Then he bites his lip hard, because the darkness of a beard is still as obvious as ever, no matter how much he tried to hide it, how closely he shaved. The ruby red lipstick he applied seems to emphasize the darkness on his jaw.

He doesn’t… look like Charlotte. That beautiful, lovely, fair-skinned lady that Erik seems to love so much.

He looks like a man in drag.

He _could_ put a glamour on Erik as well as everyone else, but he doesn’t want to do that. Erik has never hesitated to let Charles into his head, and Charles cannot – _will_ not – betray such trust by manipulating Erik’s mind.  But he really, really doesn’t want Erik to see him like this. On these occasions, Charles knows that it’s _Charlotte_ Erik wants to see, not him, and what can be more unflattering than a man in drag who doesn’t even know how to cover up his beard?

 _…Good lord, listen to yourself. You’re being ridiculous_ , he reprimands himself. _Erik loves you. He won’t mind. He won’t mind_.

Charles wrings his hands.

“Charles!” Erik calls. “Ten minutes! What are you _doing_?”

“I-I’m coming out! Just –” Charles bites down his frustration. “All right, all right, I’m coming out.”

Charles steps out with his head self-consciously ducked, one hand raised against his right cheek as though to scratch an itch, but really trying to hide the stubble. Erik raises an eyebrow at him from where he sits on the edge of the bed, his phone in hand, obviously playing with it while waiting for Charles to finish. Charles smiles sheepishly and scurries toward the chest where his dress and undergarments for the gala lies.

“Here, let me help-” Erik starts, getting up and stepping towards him.

Charles jumps and flinches away. “That’s fine! I’m… fine,” he finishes weakly, keeping his head turned away the whole time.

Unease and suspicion brew thickly in Erik’s mind. Charles knows he really should address this, because sooner or later they will have to, but he has been avoiding this particular issue for weeks now, and habits are hard to change. He simply remains silent as Erik’s mind continue to bleed concern and irritation, while he methodically clips on his bra and pads it, slides into his underskirt, and slips on an elaborate deep-blue evening gown… which has a zipper at the back that he can't reach.

Charles swallows. “Ah… Erik, would you please help zip me up?” _You don’t have to come near, just use your powers_ … but saying that to Erik would definitely push Erik farther into suspicion.

Soft footsteps report Erik’s approach, to Charles’ dismay, and then warm, firm hands are on his back, feeling out the zipper in gentle caresses.

“Thank you,” Charles says, once he feels the dress completely zipped up, but Erik’s hands are still on his back. He turns to grab his purse in hopes of shaking him off.

But Erik refuses to let him go, both hands firmly gripped – one on his shoulder, one on his waist.

“E-Erik?” Charles says nervously. “Erik, we’ll be late.”

With no warning, Erik spins him around and traps him against the wall. Charles gasps as he is caught completely off guard, his back hitting the wall with a thud. Erik is so close to his face that they’re sharing breaths.

“What’s _wrong_ , Charles,” Erik asks, voice nearly a growl.

Charles swallows. Erik is… Erik is too close. He'll see the stubble, he'll see that it won't be Charlotte tonight that will accompany him, he'll…

"What's wrong," Erik asks again, more gently this time. His eyes are imploring, searching, staring at nothing by Charles' own eyes, and it makes Charles' heart falter.

"I…" Charles starts.

 There is really no point in hiding anymore, Charles realizes. It will only fester. He takes a shaky breath.

"Do you love Charlotte more?" Charles asks, very, very softly.

Erik's eyes widen with shock, then confusion, and he stares incredulously at Charles for a long time. Charles flushes further.

"What are you talking about?" Erik asks.

Charles swallows again, and then he lets his mind open. He lets all of his insecurities, his thoughts, his feelings for the last few weeks pour into Erik. How he is jealous of the attention and the intensity of the attention that Erik gives Charlotte. How he nevertheless loves being the _object_ of Erik's love, and endeavours to _be_ Charlotte, for Erik. How difficult it is, to erase all his masculine features as much as he can, to erase _himself_ , for Charlotte to come through. How much he despises his broad shoulders, his Adam's apple, his thick figure, and his _stubble_ , the most obviously masculine feature that shadows his jaw, so unflattering and wrong on Charlotte. 

How much it hurts him, to feel that Charlotte might be replacing him.

Erik's eyes grow larger and incredulity pours from his mind and expression as he stares. Charles can feel his neck flush hot at the proximity of Erik's face; he’s never, ever felt so self-conscious of having stubble before. He flushes deeply, under Erik’s gaze – inches away from his face, so Erik must see the shaved hair follicles in detail, on his upper lip, on his chin, where the skin should be smooth for Charlotte. He notes Erik's eyes darting down and _looking_ at his stubble, and Charles instinctively ducks his head, only barely stopping his hands from coming up to cover his stippled jaw.

"Charles," Erik whispers finally. From the periphery of Charles's vision, he sees that Erik is raising a hand towards his cheek.

"Don't," Charles says, flinching away from the outstretched fingers, his skin burning with embarrassment. "Please."

The hand wavers for a few seconds, before dropping back down to Erik's side. Then it moves forward to settle on his waist instead.

When Charles looks up again, Erik is leaning in closer, something soft and gentle yet determined burning in his green-grey irises. “Close your eyes, Charles,” Erik murmurs, voice low, chasing a shiver down Charles’ spine. Something stupid flits across Charles' mind - what if Erik leaves? - but Charles does as he is told, and he gasps in absolute surprise as he feels Erik’s hot lips drag across his cheek.

Erik starts from the skin right before his right ear, where the stubble begins, and he slowly runs his lips down, down, down the trail of the rough texture. A soft, scratchy noise follows the movement. The sound is grating to his ears, and Charles' first instinct is to flinch away again, to hide this part of him that does not belong on the body of Charlotte, but Erik holds him firmly and he cannot move without getting violent. Warm petals of lip caress the stippled skin of his jaw, softly yet determinedly, and Erik works his way across his cheek, upper lip, chin, and even down his neck. Charles moans involuntarily.

At first Charles is nervous, worried, and embarrassed - this is exactly what Charles has been trying to hide all this time. But it’s so gentle, so intimate, so caring, that Charles melts, and a whimper escapes him when Erik darts a tongue out to lick his chin and nibble at his Adam’s apple. Charles swallows. Erik rubs his lips on his chin, sucking and kissing his way up the stubbled skin onto his upper lip again, mind glowing with genuine pleasure at this exercise, and that pleasure hits Charles like a flood of warm light, and it finally breaks the thorns imprisoning his mind and heart, and Charles can’t stand it anymore, it’s too much, too good, and he angles his face to capture Erik's mouth with a hot, passionate kiss.

 "How could you think that way," Erik mumbles among kisses and moans. There is a flash of genuine irritation at Charles' lack of confidence.

Charles stops, and so does the kiss. "Because of the way you look at Charlotte," he whispers.

"I was looking at _you_ , you idiot," Erik says, and then attacks Charles' mouth again, earning shiver-inducing moans from Charles. "I was looking at my husband, who looks so fucking good in _everything…_ "

Charles has started grinding against his crotch, and Erik responds, while looking at Charles' ruined face with fondness, and so tenderly there can be no doubt to the truth of Erik's words.

"I'm so glad," Charles whispers, kissing up Erik's neck, grinning in pure relief and bliss.

"I love you, Charles. Never doubt this."

"Oh, Erik," Charles breathes as Erik pushes the full extent of his love at him. There are no limits as far as Charles can see, this golden sunshine flooding both their minds. If only Charles had seen this earlier. If only Charles had looked harder and not blinded himself with assumptions, Charles would have seen this gold running throughout the veins of Erik's mind, and he would never have gone through his past weeks of angst. "I love you too."

 

***~***~***

 

"Erik," Charles begins, as they lay in bed after the Most Passionate Bout of Sex they have ever had (and that's saying something), "I'm not sure how often I can dress up for these parties anymore." 

"What do you mean?" Erik replies in a sleepy, rumbly murmur.

"Cameras aren't minds," he says. "I have no control over them. If anyone gets a picture of me at the wrong angle, it'll be over. I'm surprised nothing has come up yet."

"…Oh. Is that what you were worried about?" Erik says this so nonchalantly that Charles feels utterly confused. Isn't this a rather serious issue?

"Well, yes! Of course I am. It'll ruin us both."

"Hm... it's fine, Charles." Erik shifts, running his hand absent-mindedly up and down Charles' side, fingers soft and warm. "I've thought about that before. When we're out, I keep track of all the devices that would photograph you, and glitch them when they do. You're safe."

Charles blinks. "What."

"The first time we went out, an event photographer caught a picture of you. When he reviewed the photo, he looked extremely confused, and kept glancing at you. I realized what happened and deleted that photo on the spot."

"You knew all this time and you never told me?" Charles feels betrayed. Weeks of anxiety…

"It made no difference. You glamoured the people, I glamoured the cameras. It was one less thing for you to worry about."

"Then... _then_ ," Charles continues, breaths hitching as the memory visits him, "what was that at Tony's dinner, the other week?"

Erik looks at him, confused. 

"You..." Charles voice turns small. "You didn't kiss me back."

Erik continues to look at him as his eyebrows furrow and hit his hairline. "What on earth are you talking about?"

Charles can feel that Erik's confusion is genuine, and he flushes furiously. "Um. It's - it's easier if I..." With a small nudge for permission, Charles reaches out with his mind and exchanges memories of that moment with Erik, only to find that Erik had absolutely no idea Charles had been leaning forward to kiss him. At that moment, his husband's mind had already focused on what drinks to order.

"Ugh," Charles groans, burying his mortification into Erik's shoulder. "All this time, worrying about..."

"About nothing?" Erik supplies, sounding extremely amused.

Charles sniffs.

A long moment goes by, where Erik's mind is heavy with thoughts. Charles is too afraid to peek at them. Then, Erik shifts and brings a hand to turn Charles' face towards his. His thumb caresses the stubble growing there, and Charles fights down the wave of insecurity that still rises up in his chest by habit. Erik's eyes are so soft with unbelievable tenderness that Charles swallows. 

"You need to give me more credit," Erik says quietly. It's almost a plea. "Believe in me, when I say that I love you. I don't want to see you hurt doubting this, _us_ , ever again."

Charles' throat swells with emotion. "Okay," he whispers. "Okay."

It will still take some time to completely undo the weeks of damage in Charles' mind, but Charles already feels happier about himself than he has in a long while.


End file.
